


Precipice

by Photogirl1890



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Photogirl1890/pseuds/Photogirl1890
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Torres. Paris. Just how did that Day of Honour holoprogram come about? Spans late season 3/early season 4. P/T.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. November

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to Paramount/CBS. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Rating: T
> 
> A/N: This story started out as an attempt to give some backstory to the Day of Honour holoprogram and other events of the episode of the same name. Once I started fact-checking, I realised it was going to take a lot more work (and words) than I had originally envisaged to tell the story I wanted to.
> 
> My sincere thanks goes to Delwin (whose stories are a treat not to be missed): for research assistance, tons of encouragement, general wisdom, and last but not least, beta-reading.

1\. November

The holographic combatants had been vanquished for the session. B'Elanna sighed with relief as she saw the gridlines reappear on the holodeck walls. She wouldn't have been too upset if the _bat'leth_ in her hands had dematerialised with the amphitheatre scenery, but Tom had insisted that she replicate herself one of the edged weapons, rather than rely on a disposable, holographic version. It was a ridiculous idea that made no rational sense, but she'd found herself acquiescing. For some reason that both baffled and alarmed her, Tom's opinions had become increasingly important to her over the last few months. Therefore, she had continued to participate in the Klingon martial arts program with him, several times beyond fulfilling the requirements of the stupid bet she had lost. But as far as she'd led him to believe, she was only suffering through the damn program out of a sense of duty.

A few steps away from her, Tom plunked himself down on the floor, a look of exhausted satisfaction on his face. He leant back against the wall, stretching his long legs out in front of him. The workout had clearly pushed him more than it had her, quite possibly due to their different levels of enthusiasm for the activity. His sandy hair was damp, his fair skin flushed and he was breathing heavily. She looked away sharply when he caught her staring.

"I've been meaning to ask you something," Tom said, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "About the Day of Honour."

B'Elanna wasn't sure quite what she'd expected his query to concern, but the Day of Honour wouldn't have been amongst her first guesses. She looked back at him and scowled, before bending down to pick up her water bottle from the ground and dropping the _bat'leth_ with a clang. "Where did you hear about that?"

"I read about it." When she didn't enquire "where?", he smirked and added, "In _Women Warriors at the River of Blood_."

B'Elanna coughed as some of her water went down the wrong way, remembering the PADD he'd swiped from her in the mess hall a few weeks ago. After their emergency summons to the bridge, the PADD had been forgotten, to be returned to her a few days later by an embarrassed-looking Neelix, who claimed he'd had to browse the contents of the device to determine its owner. "You actually read that?" she asked Tom, her cheeks, to her dismay, warming.

He nodded, his eyes sparkling as he gazed up at her. She should have known Tom Paris would have downloaded himself a copy from the ship's library …

B'Elanna cringed. "All of it?"

"All 150,000 words. It was very … enlightening."

_ghuy'cha'!_ It had been naïve of her to take the book into the mess hall. But, having followed the exploits of Rorg and M'Nea previously (albeit a long time ago), she'd remembered that the first chapter was pretty tame. She wouldn't have read as far as the more lurid sections in public. Of all the people to show an interest in what she'd been reading, it had to have been Tom Paris. And the tone of chapter one had been enough to pique his interest. Her blatant, ill-considered flirting hadn't exactly discouraged him, either. The stupid book must have temporarily turned her brain to mush … "You do realise," she countered, "that certain … aspects tend to be exaggerated in that sort of escapist literature."

Tom chuckled. "I should hope so. There were a few scenes that sent my eyebrows up to my hairline. But," he added suggestively, "I've never actually … you know, with a Klingon."

Neither had she, for that matter. Not that she was going to reveal such details to him. All of the few men she'd been involved with had been human. And, despite Vorik's assertions about Klingons during the arrogant little _petaQ_ 's 'marriage proposal', they had all - well, mostly all - come through it unscathed. She was only _half_ -Klingon, after all. Max Burke's dislocated wrist was the sole exception. But that had been his own fault for tripping over his roommate's kit bag. That could have happened with anybody. Max Burke … where was he now?

Seeing that she wasn't going to take the bait, Tom cleared his throat and then grew serious. "But the Day of Honour isn't fictitious. It's a real holiday, right?"

B'Elanna nodded, trying to recall the exact mention of the Day of Honour in the trashy novel. It had only been a throwaway line if she remembered correctly. The 'plot' hadn't really hinged on an in-depth look at Klingon culture.

"Tell me about it," Tom persisted.

"Why don't you just look it up in the cultural database?" she snapped.

"Because I'd rather hear about it from you."

"It's a long time since I've thought about it. I don't remember the exact details."

"Then tell me what you can remember," he repeated patiently, gesturing for B'Elanna to sit beside him.

She did so, sighing, knowing she should be grateful he wasn't interrogating her on some of the more "enlightening" parts of the book. "All right. Well, it's celebrated during the month of _nay'Poq_. Every Klingon is supposed to examine his or her behaviour over the previous year to see if it's measured up to the required standards." That much was carved so deeply into her memory that B'Elanna could recall it effortlessly.

"Of course, on Kessik Four, we were using the Federation calendar, so the Day of Honour didn't come around at the exact same time each standard year. But my mother made damn sure she knew when it was. There was this special dinner we had to eat. She made enough blood pie that we were eating the leftovers for weeks." At least it had seemed like it. "And after the blood pie we were supposed to eat sanctified targ heart." B'Elanna snorted. "I have no idea how she managed to get hold of that, but she always did. That had to be followed with a glass of _mot'loch_." The foul taste of the beverage came back to her as she spoke its name. _mot'loch_ made blood wine taste like water in comparison.

She paused to look at Tom, who was listening intently.

"I'm pretty sure that on the homeworld there are other rituals followed, but being the only Klingons on the colony, my mother probably had to curtail some of the more expansive rites." Thank Kahless. "I remember one year, after my father left, she made me go hiking with her as an endurance test. She loaded her pack with weights, just to make it more of a challenge. By the time we got home, she could barely move. But, I don't know what they do on Qo'noS. My mother must have told me, but I didn't really care to know, and I still don't. We actually lived on Qo'noS for a short while, but I guess the time we were there didn't coincide with the holiday." Or the residents of the Klingon monastery that had put them up were such impeccable examples of honourable conduct that they hadn't needed to observe the occasion. "Anyway, when I got to about thirteen, I flat out refused to have anything more to do with the Day of Honour, or any Klingon rituals ever again. My mother didn't speak to me for two weeks after that …" And how long had it been now since they'd last spoken to each other? Nearly eight years?

B'Elanna took another swig of water from her bottle and glanced at Tom, who now seemed lost for something to say. "So there you have it," she muttered, breaking the awkward silence. "The Day of Honour in a nut shell. Not my favourite holiday."

"It sounds better than _Kal Rekk_ , at least," Tom quipped after another pause.

B'Elanna frowned, unable to place the reference.

"The Vulcan day of atonement in silence and solitude," Tom clarified, a small smile forming on his lips.

Surprisingly, she found herself smiling too. "Maybe," she conceded. "But that's not saying much."

The computer chose that moment to remind them that their two hour holodeck slot was up, prohibiting any further questioning for the time being. B'Elanna sprang to her feet and retrieved the discarded _bat'leth_ , simultaneously instructing the computer to recycle her empty drinking bottle. Tom rose a little less hastily, and the sight of B'Elanna brandishing the fearsome weapon as they exited the holodeck, sent Naomi Wildman scurrying behind her mother's legs in the corridor.

The conversation in the turbolift up to deck four was, mercifully, kept to ship's business: chatter on the bridge had been very palaeontology-heavy since the Voth encounter last week; Ken Dalby had been overly aggressive with a plasma torch and had accidentally set off the fire suppression system in Engineering.

B'Elanna bade Tom goodnight outside his quarters, his being a sweaty mess giving her a good excuse to decline his invitation to come in for a _raktajino_.

Tom was undoubtedly fascinated by her Klingon side, not repelled and certainly not intimidated. But, was he only interested in her because he was interested in Klingons? Or was he interested in Klingons because he was interested in her? She filed the thought away for future reference.

The first thing she did on entering her quarters was to fling the _bat'leth_ under her bed - out of sight, out of mind. But, for the first time, she actually felt guilty about doing so. It might look good hung up on display; Tom would certainly approve. Then again, a sharp blade could be a safety hazard in the event of an artificial gravity failure or if an impact shook it loose. Dying in her bed at the 'hands' of a flying _bat'leth_ wouldn't be a particularly heroic way to go …

But since when did she start caring about a glorious death?

An hour after her head hit the pillow, she was still replaying the conversation in the holodeck in her head, wondering if her dismissal of all things Klingon was still a healthy attitude to maintain. An hour after that, she was debating over whether to pull the _bat'leth_ out from under the bed and at least stow it in the closet. In the end, there seemed only one course of action she could take if she was going to get any sleep. So, she took a deep breath and called out into the darkness.

"Computer, cross-reference the Klingon calendar with standard Federation dates. When is the next Day of Honour?"


	2. December

2\. December

"Feels good to be warm again."

"Yeah, it sure does."

The beaming, closed-eye smile B'Elanna saw on Tom's face did far more to banish the residual chill she still felt from the frigid Argala habitat than did the artificial sunlight of the Paxau resort. Her stomachs even fluttered, and as much as she tried to convince herself it was through missing both breakfast and lunch fixing the Nyrians' tampering in engineering, it wasn't.

B'Elanna closed her own eyes, the bustling sounds of the resort reassuring in the background. She took a deep breath and turned to Tom.

"About the Day of Honour."

Tom's eyes shot open as he turned to face her, expectantly.

B'Elanna hesitated, but now she'd broached the topic, she was committed to continue. "I was thinking … the next Day of Honour falls in about three months time. I thought …" She looked away from him, carefully studying the horrid flowery pattern on the cushion beside his head as she formulated her next sentence. "If you're still interested in learning about it, we could - maybe - do some research on it. Together."

She glanced back to observe his reaction. Another smile lit up his face, this one so warm it would have melted a Ktarian glacier. The Argala habitat might never have existed.

"Sure, what did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking … we could design a holoprogram so I could observe the ceremony. Maybe. I mean, I'm not sure if I definitely want to yet. And I could do it on my own. I know enough about holoprogramming, but you did such a great job with Sandrine's – it's so atmospheric - so if you really are interested -"

He cut off her rambling. "I'd love to help."

"Right then." She swallowed, her throat dry. "Thanks."

A holographic waiter approached with a tray of glasses filled with a luminescent orange liquid. B'Elanna took one, grateful for the interruption so she could gather her thoughts.

The other crew members present seemed to be giving them a lot of space - in the physical sense - but eyeing them with curiosity, no doubt due to the manner in which they'd rematerialized in the Nyrian prison colony. It irritated the hell out of her and she wondered if it did Tom. Probably not. He had to have noticed though, that, try as they might to be discreet, numerous of their shipmates were showing an excessive interest in the Talaxian sculpture behind the heads of the pilot and chief engineer.

It wasn't the first time there'd been a surge of interest every time she found herself in the company of Tom Paris. In the immediate aftermath of the blood fever incident, it had been like living in a goldfish bowl. Some blabbermouth - Ensign Lang was under the heaviest suspicion - had obviously spread the word about the bite to Tom's face. Then, when there were no further developments for the Voyager rumour mill to seize upon, the interest had waned – at least B'Elanna thought it had.

It wasn't that she was ashamed to be seen in Tom's company; even the most unforgiving of the former Maquis had grown to respect Tom Paris over the two and a half years that _Voyager_ had now been in the Delta Quadrant. She'd have been just as irritated if there were conjecture about her relationship with anyone on board. Her personal life was – personal – as much as anyone could have a personal life when work and home were the same place. Privacy was a basic requirement for mental well-being, and, some people would do well to remember that if they didn't want to get on her bad side. Swinn and Henley were the latest pair of gawking onlookers. They soon averted their stares when B'Elanna gave them her most Klingon glare.

"So, how soon do you want to get started?" Tom asked.

"I guess, as soon as possible. We could start by doing some basic research and take it from there."

"I'll check my shift rotation and see if we can earmark some time when we're both off duty."

"Sounds good to me."

"I'll look forward to it."

She settled back against the cushions again, let out a slow breath, and closed her eyes.

It really was good to be warm.

###

Tom was early. When her door mechanism chimed, B'Elanna was still changing out of her uniform into casual clothing. He would just have to wait a moment.

She let him in as soon as she was decent, inviting him to sit on the sofa whilst she gathered some things together: her jacket, shoes, and – where the hell was the report she needed to deliver to Tuvok?

"I'll just be another minute," B'Elanna said, flustered as she searched the drawers in her desk, and the floor beneath it. "I left a PADD here somewhere. Tuvok commed me. He wants to look over my shield maintenance report before tomorrow's security update. I said I'd drop it by his office."

"Is this it?" Tom called over from the other side of the room. She turned and looked to see him lift a PADD from the arm of the sofa and thumb on the display. Oh crap. "No, that's –"

" _Women Warriors at the Tar Pits of mor'Dor_?" Tom said with a smirk. "You didn't tell me _River of Blood_ has a sequel."

"Give me that," she snapped, moving hastily to his position and reaching for the PADD. But Tom stood, and using his extra height to his advantage, held it out of her reach. "It's a prequel, anyway," B'Elanna corrected, debating whether to use force to recover the device.

Tom started to read aloud, holding the PADD up and craning his neck. " 'Grilka pulled Toral into the torch-lit cave. The unmistakeable heat in his eyes glowed like blazing coals as she tore off her armour and threw it at him. She …' " Tom squinted. " '… and her pulse raced as he … and …' " His eyebrows rose. "Is that even possible? And, who writes this stuff?" He pressed one of the control keys to access the title page. "Hmm. 'LurSa, daughter of Ja'roD'. Is that a pseudonym do you think?"

B'Elanna took advantage of his momentary distraction, yanking Tom's arm downwards from the elbow and peeling his fingers off the PADD. He could have put up more resistance, but wisely chose to yield, quite possibly saving himself a fractured digit or two. Did Tom Paris have some kind of built-in tractor beam for lurid fiction? Or was her subconscious mind causing her to inadvertently leave him subliminal hints? She dismissed both concepts as ridiculous. She'd had no way of predicting he would be spending any time in her quarters.

"You know what _Voyager_ needs?" Tom said, not hiding his enjoyment of the situation.

B'Elanna stowed the incriminating PADD in a desk drawer, finding inside the one containing the report for Tuvok. If only she'd paid more attention a moment ago.

"A book club," Tom said, in answer to his own question. "A group of us get together, we each take turns to put forward our favourite novel, then we all read it and discuss our opinions with the group. We can start with _Women Warriors_ if you like."

B'Elanna sighed. "It's not my favourite novel. It's just light entertainment. I don't want to be reading _War and Peace_ after a hard day at the warp core." Though she was seriously considering switching her reading choice to T'hain's _The Dictates of Poetics_. "Here." She thrust the PADD intended for Tuvok into Tom's hand. "Hold that while I put my shoes on."

Tom was unrelenting. "Jenny Delaney's reading a similar book, you know. Though I don't think it has any warriors in it. Some old Earth novel. It has a really dull sounding title, but she swears it's a real classic of the genre."

"I didn't realise you and Jenny Delaney were all that close these days," B'Elanna remarked, feeling absurdly uneasy at the mention of the other woman's name.

"Close?" Tom's eyes narrowed. "I don't know if I'd say close, but we're still friends - in a purely platonic kind of way." He stared at B'Elanna intensely, appraisingly. Shoes on, she busied herself picking an insignificant piece of fluff off her jacket sleeve.

"Are you jealous?" he asked, eventually.

B'Elanna scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."

A flash of hurt raced across Tom's features, immediately replaced with a casual smile. The bluntness of her tone had been unintentionally excessive. B'Elanna struggled for something to say to change the subject she had herself, inadvertently brought up, before Tom said plainly, "Jenny's only got eyes for Harry."

"Oh. Lucky Harry." B'Elanna meant it, despite her own opinion on the more annoying Delaney sister. Harry deserved some luck in his love life after the debacle with the alien posing as a hologram and then the Taresians.

"If he ever takes the hint," Tom added. "I guess some people take a while to figure out when something good's on offer."

"I guess so." B'Elanna shrugged on her jacket. "We should get going."

###

The holographic research lab was the ideal place to set up camp for a few hours of information retrieval. B'Elanna's office in Main Engineering was suitable in most circumstances that required her to do R & D. Tom evidently liked to use the HRL when he wanted to undertake some extra-curricular study of navigation data, or work on his conn reports. He had a tried and tested system for optimum research efficiency that he was only too eager to introduce to B'Elanna.

Tom called up a large viewscreen and a holographic sofa, from which they could sit in comfort and look at the search results that the computer displayed. Research was best done on a full stomach, Tom insisted, replicating a large, colourful pizza, pre-cut into slices and served in a cardboard tray. The packaging was seemingly crucial to the culinary experience; apparently, pizza was not meant to be eaten from plates with cutlery, an assertion that B'Elanna rolled her eyes at. The melted cheese component was laden with a variety of vegetables and chunks of processed meat. She vowed to eat it without complaint. Tom was, after all, here to help her, and offending him by criticizing his 'research methods' would not be a good way to start. Sinking back into the astonishingly comfortable cushions, and, deciding it was best to move things along before getting too relaxed, she called out her first instruction. "Computer, display a list of Klingon Day of Honour rituals."

"Please specify regional variation or sub-culture, and historical period."

B'Elanna glanced at Tom, who shrugged in a manner she took to mean that the choice was all hers. "Limit to practices still common in the post-2350 era. All regions and sub-cultures."

"There are seven hundred and ninety-seven entries. Displaying the first twenty."

"I never imagined there'd be so many different ways to observe the same holiday," B'Elanna commented, as a long list of summaries filled the screen in large, bold font.

Tom pointed towards the centre of the display. "Look at that one: number thirteen. The inhabitants of …" he hesitated as he worked out the pronunciation, " _qa'rI'yuQ_ near the south pole, prove their honour by swimming in the icy waters of Lake bech'Iq from dawn until dusk."

"I'm not adding that to the short list. The Day of Honour falls in the summer in the southern hemisphere." Twenty hours of daylight immersed in sub-zero temperatures sounded more like a suicide attempt than a test of one's mettle. B'Elanna shuddered.

"And compare that to number twenty," Tom said. "In Ketha Province they cleanse themselves in the hot springs of … _Tuj'bIQ_ , before drinking bloodwine from the skull of a _tangqa'_."

"That doesn't sound quite so bad. Computer show details for number twenty."

The display changed to a long text explanation, along with a picture of a formidable, horned bovine – the _tangqa'_ : this one alive and well.

"The cleansing is done stark-naked." Tom pointed up at the viewscreen with glee, not taking his eyes off B'Elanna's face. "Third line down. See?"

B'Elanna crossed her arms across her chest. "As I'd be in a locked holodeck, alone, that wouldn't be a problem."

Tom opened his mouth as if to speak, then appeared to reconsider his intended retort. B'Elanna asked the computer to return to the main menu.

They browsed through several pages, delving further into the details of any entry that caught their attention.

"The ritual of _tuy' qo'qaD_ ," Tom read aloud. "That sounds interesting. Let's look at -"

"No," B'Elanna called sharply. "Computer, display entry number ninety nine."

A wave of nostalgia caused her breath to catch in her throat. Photographs loaded up of a bright orange star and an artist's impression of a Klingon child with, of all things, a telescope. Eyes glued to the text and images on the screen, B'Elanna reached for the pizza perched next to her on the sofa, her arm brushing against Tom's as he simultaneously did the same from the other side. She jumped at the unexpected contact.

If he noticed her skittishness – and he most likely did - he had the good grace not to comment, merely asking her, "Is this one familiar?" He read the standard translation of the Klingon header: "The ritual of qaw'Hop. For Klingons away from the homeworld."

She nodded. "I remember this, or something similar. When I was very young, four or five, maybe, my parents took me to the observatory at Kessik's main university to look through the subspace telescope there. It was the first time I ever saw Qo'noS – the star, at least. I'd forgotten about the trip until now. I didn't realise we'd been marking the Day of Honour. I thought it was just a regular family outing." A family outing with no bickering. There hadn't been many of them, and, as such, it should have stayed nearer the forefront of her memory.

In fact, as they worked through the mountain of information, several of the listed rituals sounded familiar. Snatches of long-repressed memories came back to her - echoes of her mother's lectures, but also fonder recollections: of bedtime stories, and the Klingon equivalent of nursery rhymes.

B'Elanna narrowed the search parameters, instructing the computer not to include any practices that involved water, frozen or otherwise. Singing, meditation, and body art were likewise excluded. There were still over two hundred remaining entries on the list of results. Tom would have read the intricate details of each and every one had B'Elanna not encouraged him to skim read.

"As much as I hate to admit it," she gestured at the screen, which currently showed an image of two armour-clad Klingon warriors wrestling with a _mIl'oD_ , "this … it is pretty interesting." The next words were out of her mouth before she could process the underlying emotions with which they were associated. "If my mother hadn't been so insistent on trying to … brainwash me, I think I might have been genuinely curious about this stuff. I might actually have enjoyed learning about the things she wanted to teach me. I -" She paused. Did she really want to want to talk about this? Now? With Tom Paris?

Tom thought for a moment. "She was probably afraid that, being surrounded by humans, you'd miss out on learning about Klingon traditions if she didn't make an extra effort to introduce you to them."

"There's a difference between giving your child the opportunity, and forcing your beliefs on them," B'Elanna vented. "She had ridiculously unrealistic expectations of me, and so I was a continual disappointment."

Tom scratched his forehead. "So maybe she was a little …"

"Fanatical?"

"I was going to say enthusiastic, but …" He shrugged.

Tom Paris likely knew a thing or two about living up to expectations. Or not living up to them. B'Elanna changed the subject, insisting that he take the sole remaining slice of pizza even though he'd already eaten more than his share, and telling him about the tweaks she'd made to the replicator system in an attempt to reduce the power drain. The conversation lingered there for a while, Tom asking her opinion as to whether Neelix could likely be persuaded to make pizza in the galley, before talk drifted back to Klingon rituals.

Three hours later, dessert long since finished, and with a bottle of (alcoholic) wine half-emptied, they were still in the fact-procuring stage. The gap between them on the sofa had shrunk somewhat from being a large pizza-width to a hand span, though B'Elanna hadn't moved an inch sideways. She turned a blind eye until, after leaning forwards to brush crumbs off her lap, she slumped back and felt a solid mass against the nape of her neck where previously there had been only spongy cushion. Reflexively, she sat bolt upright and turned to glare at the owner of the outstretched arm behind her.

"I had cramp," Tom protested feebly, not withdrawing the offending limb though he did move it higher up the back of the sofa.

She wasn't looking for an argument and besides, making a big deal of it would only give him the attention he was seeking. So, with only another, half-hearted glower in his direction, she sat back and tolerated the incursion into her personal space. On reflection, she wondered if it hadn't been for the fact she'd been startled, she would have commented at all. And with that, she resolved that her current glass of wine would be her last of the evening.

"We should call it a night," Tom said, sometime later, regret evident in his voice. "It's nearly midnight, and even if we stayed here till dawn, we'd never be able to look at everything."

"I didn't realise it was that late," B'Elanna admitted. Not that she wasn't feeling bleary-eyed, but the time had passed quickly. They hadn't even begun to discuss how to take the research and work it into a functional program.

"The next few weeks should be pretty quiet," Tom said cheerfully. "I'm sure I can while away some boring shifts on the bridge thinking about the program design."

"And I'll download some files to a PADD to look over on my breaks," she said, surprising herself. She smirked and risked adding, "I could do with a change of reading material." And, not giving him a chance to respond she continued, "I hear Neelix is working on a Christmas pudding recipe for next week."

Tom grimaced. "I've never had a taste for the stuff myself."

"I doubt Neelix's version will make you change your mind."

"No. But he can never be accused of not trying. I expect he'll want to decorate the mess hall again. I hope the Captain makes him use an artificial tree this year. Remember that Ixian spruce he put up last time?"

"How could anyone forget? The smell when the blossom opened was horrific."

"I might ask him to replicate some mistletoe." Tom grinned, and, try as she might, B'Elanna could not completely suppress a smile.

"Good idea," she quipped, enjoying how the look of surprise on his face changed when she added, "Maybe I'll try my luck with Freddy Bristow."

The lab restored to the stark condition in which they'd found it, they headed out the exit into the corridor. Confident of his answer, but feeling it was right to ask, she said, "You still want to do this, right?"

"Sure. It's fun."

"Fun" might be pushing it, but it had been one of the most enjoyable evenings she'd had in a long time despite the few awkward moments.

"So, we'll make a proper list of ceremony options next time?" she said, regretting her word choice, which made it sound like she was organising a wedding. Thankfully, the corridor was deserted, with no eavesdroppers to get the wrong impression and spread gossip.

Tom nodded eagerly. "And then we can design the holographic interface. Maybe we can get the program finished by the end of the year."

"In two weeks?" She considered, and, with a surge of enthusiasm channelled from her companion, she decided, "OK. Let's try it."

What was the worst that could happen?


	3. January

3\. January

She was fuming. Livid. And disappointed. And, very shortly, Tom Paris was going to know all about it.

Today being the first time in nearly three weeks she'd permitted herself to take a break for a meal, she'd been looking forward to a solid hour sitting at a table. An hour to eat and actually digest her food with the hope of foregoing the perpetual indigestion she'd suffered lately, brought on from stuffing whatever one of her team had fetched her to eat while she worked.

But, the promised respite had held a spark which lit the powder keg that was her temper.

She'd joined Harry at an otherwise empty table and tucked into her food. After checking how he was feeling after his recent ordeal with the Captain's pet Borg, the conversation was light and free-flowing. Until he'd asked her about "the new Klingon program".

The "Klingon program" had not been a priority for B'Elanna in the recent weeks. Between Species 8472, the Borg, and some residual damage to _Voyager_ 's hull integrity caused by Kes' transformation, B'Elanna had had very little time to think about anything other than work. She'd hardly seen Tom since Christmas Day, the day before the telemetry from the long-range probe had shown them that _Voyager_ was about to encounter the Borg. It certainly wasn't intentional avoidance, it was just how things had gone.

Now that life had quietened down, at least for the non-engineers on the crew, she'd been half expecting a reminder about the program from Tom.

She had not been expecting to hear about it from Harry.

Her knife and fork left indents in the table top as she reacted to his question. Young Gerron, passing by on his way to the counter, was nearly bowled off his feet as her chair shot backwards. Neelix gawked across from the galley with wide eyes, perhaps fearing he was in line for a complaint about the food. Harry was dumbstruck. And had turned very pale. None of that concerned B'Elanna as she pounded out of the mess hall to the turbolift.

Just to rub salt in the wound, the plate of fried 'chicken' she'd left unfinished on the table, had actually been fairly edible.

She strode into the turbolift, cursing out loud with the realisation that her destination was a mystery. "Computer, locate Lieutenant Paris," she growled.

"Lieutenant Paris is in the shuttle bay."

Which was good news. If he'd been on the bridge, her intentions would be undergoing a serious re-think.

Screw the damn Klingon program. What the hell had she been thinking trusting Tom Paris?

The lift took an eon to reach deck ten. Rather than calming her down, the wait only exacerbated her anger, as did the fact that the shuttle bay was crowded, though she should have expected that. After all, one of the reasons she'd been pulling double shifts in engineering, was that a quarter of her team were down here on construction duty, building from parts a new type-9 shuttle to replace the one Kes had left with.

Despite her blinding rage, B'Elanna still had enough sense to realise that it was not in her own interests to make a public spectacle of giving Tom Paris a piece of her mind. So, it was fortuitous that he was inside the new shuttle, leaning over the helm controls with Nicoletti and Vorik flanking him. The instrument panel was in an intermediate state of completion with exposed power lines and ODN relays. The trio were discussing the configuration of the subspace sensors, with Tom encouraging a deviation from the Starfleet schematics to improve navigational accuracy.

"Lieutenant Paris, I need a word," B'Elanna said, her tone clipped but controlled, before any of the three had noticed her presence behind them. Tom turned the fastest, his warm smile soon vanishing as he took in her demeanour.

Nicoletti made a swift exit. Vorik took a little more persuading; a curt "take a break" from B'Elanna was contested as, evidently, an environmental controls diagnostic was still only halfway through. B'Elanna ripped the cable connecting the diagnostic equipment from its socket on the auxiliary ops console, resetting the timer, and, with a raise of one eyebrow and a slight sigh, the Vulcan took his leave. In an unexpected but astute move, he pushed the hatch closure control on his way out of the shuttle.

"You told Harry about the Day of Honour program," B'Elanna snarled, her pulse thundering in her ears, her fists bunching and a toxic surge of stress hormones flooding her bloodstream.

Tom recoiled into the instrument panel, raising his hands in surrender. "Hey, take it easy. I –"

"Don't try to deny it. He just asked me when he could give it a try!"

Tom frowned. "I mentioned that we were working on a Klingon program. I didn't go into specifics. He –"

"I thought it was just our thing, and now I find out you've been blabbing about it as if it's some … novelty, and –"

"Hey!" It was his turn to interrupt, his voice calmer than her own, but with a definite edge to it. "It was only Harry, and he must have misunderstood because I never said it was going to be for public access, and I didn't tell him anything about the Day of Honour."

She gathered herself, blinking, adjusting her breathing, and, beginning to feel more than a little foolish. "Just Harry?"

Tom nodded, scratching his chin. "He saw me looking over some specs at breakfast yesterday and he asked me what I was … It must have been the holograms."

"What?"

"It probably looked like another Klingon martial arts program. Like the one we use from the ship's hololibrary."

B'Elanna stared blankly, prompting him to elaborate.

"With all that's happened, we've not had a chance to get together and start on the Day of Honour interface. So, I thought I'd do some of the groundwork myself."

The more rational part of her brain gradually asserted its dominance through the fog of overreaction. She swallowed hard. "I see." And, fixing her gaze at a point on the floor, she conceded, "Sorry. I might have jumped to conclusions."

"Might have?" was his hasty but level response. His frown deepened. "Did you really think I'd go telling everyone about the program? And I certainly don't think of it as –"

"I said sorry!" she snapped, instantly regretting it. Why did a red alert never happen when she needed one? Or a sinkhole open up under her feet?

Tom took a slow breath and looked her up and down with concern, pronouncing, "You're exhausted. You need a day off."

She huffed. "Like that's going to happen any time soon. We're still finding residual damage from all the crap the Borg installed, deck eight lost artificial gravity this morning and we've yet to find the cause," she gestured out the cockpit window, "and, with all the personnel I've had to assign to building this shuttle, we're weeks behind on the regular maintenance schedule, and …" She threw her hands up in the air. The hard work didn't bother her, but the fatigue that resulted did have a deleterious effect on her ability to rein in her temper. And it was clouding her judgement.

"A few hours off then, at least," Tom said. "The Captain can't begrudge you that."

It wasn't a case of the Captain begrudging it. There was simply work to do that required the chief engineer's personal involvement. She could delegate some of the management to Carey or Nicoletti, and Vorik had been strategically appointed to head up the team in the shuttle bay, but, very often, if one wanted a job doing right, it was best to do it one's self. Her brain caught up to words her ears had heard a moment ago. "Ground work and holograms?"

Tom nodded. "Just basic scenery composition and environmental elements. And a couple of interactive characters. For realism. I haven't tried running it on the holodeck yet. I wanted to wait until you were free to join me, but …"

B'Elanna sighed. "I've been kind of busy." Though she didn't tell him so, when she finally got a few spare hours, her idea of recreation would be a game of velocity or a few drinks by the pool in the Paxau resort. Not hanging out with Klingon holograms. But, if Tom was making all this effort on her behalf, it was wrong of her not show more interest. Then again …

She slumped down into the co-pilot's seat, running a hand across the back of her neck whose taut muscles vied for attention with the burning pain in her chest that had just come on.

"Listen," she said tentatively. "I appreciate all the help you're giving me with the Day of Honour, but … I don't know when I'll next get the time to contribute anything to the program myself, so … maybe we should just call it a loss for this year."

Tom shook his head emphatically. "But we have another six weeks to finish it. I'm happy to carry on with the design element, and then when you do get some free time, we can look at integrating the ceremony aspects. In the meantime, you could be thinking about which rituals you want to include. That doesn't require a lot of time expenditure. You already read through the rest of the files, right?"

"I … have a few left to read," she understated.

He raised an eyebrow, not fooled by the lie. "This was your idea, remember? You want to do this."

One minute she did, the next she didn't. The cycle back and forth was exasperating. But, if she gave up on the idea without seeing it through to completion, she'd be missing out on seeing what Tom Paris would come up with given free rein - well, plenty of leeway at least - to indulge his fascination in all things Klingon. And he was clearly still enthusiastic enough that even her temper tantrum hadn't discouraged him. Exhausted she might be, but it wasn't a good enough excuse for her behaviour. He was letting her off the hook more easily than she deserved.

Curiosity, pride – and an unwillingness to disappoint him unnecessarily - were powerful motivators. She met his gaze. "I get the final say. If I don't like something …"

"Then we change it," he insisted, sitting down in the pilot's seat. "But I think you'll like what I have in mind." He smiled. "It's atmospheric."

B'Elanna was about to ask just what that meant when he raised a pertinent point.

"So, did you leave poor Harry in one piece? Should I be taking flowers and grapes to him in sickbay?"

Shit. Harry. She'd left him in a state of shock in the mess hall. Her already tormented stomachs churned. "Actually," she allowed herself a small smile, "he might be headed down there to look for you. I'm surprised he didn't comm you to warn I was on my way here."

Tom frowned theatrically. "Yeah. A good friend would have done that. I'll have to have words with him."

B'Elanna sprang to her feet. "I should go and find him. He did look a little … worried when I left him." Terrified. And, it was strange that Harry hadn't given Tom a warning. Of course, even Harry would have the life experience to know it was usually best not to involve oneself in arguments between … Surely Harry didn't think of she and Tom as … a couple? Did he?

Tom stood politely as she edged back towards the exit. "Try and get that day off planned in," he called. "And when you do, let me know when it is. I'll see if I can get mine to coincide."

She turned and nodded, offered another matter-of-fact apology for her overreaction, and popped the hatch. Vorik stood sentry outside. B'Elanna ignored him. The sight of the irritating little _petaQ_ still triggered confusing memories and emotions that she should have sorted through, but had preferred to bury. Though her feelings towards the Vulcan himself were crystal clear. Nicoletti was in a hushed conversation with Golwat that ceased abruptly when they noticed B'Elanna pass by. Shit. More fodder for the ship's gossips, and she had no one to blame but herself and her trust issues.

She traipsed back up to the mess hall, her hour of respite self-sabotaged. With plenty to think about.

###

It was another two weeks before B'Elanna got a day off. She'd managed to find a few snatches of recreational time in the interim, but those had been spent in more relaxing pastimes than immersing herself in Klingon culture: a quick game of Parrises squares with Harry, hoverball with Chakotay. She and Tom had shared a few meals in the mess hall and quick chats in the corridors. Often, those brief encounters with Tom were the highlight of her day. He was, quite simply, good company. He hadn't pushed her about the holoprogram and she hadn't brought it up. But she knew he was working on it; she'd checked the HRL's access logs. The lab's primary user for off-duty purposes was recorded as Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Thomas Eugene Paris.

Now, the new shuttle was finally ready for flight testing, repair teams had finished scouring _Voyager_ 's hull reinforcing microfractures, and, barring what Janeway had decreed should stay, all the Borg 'enhancements' were extracted from the ship's innards.

Even with such progress, B'Elanna's day off had nearly been thwarted. It had started with a visit to airponics. Henley and Chell had managed to clog the nutrient mist supply lines by using the wrong formulation of fertilizer in the reservoir tank. The pair had commed their old Maquis comrade in a state of panic. It turned out they were happier to face the predictable wrath of the chief engineer than seek help through regular channels and risk the captain finding out about their negligence. They also held out hope that the incident could remain off record. Old loyalties were important to B'Elanna, but procedures had to be followed up to a point. As much as she didn't need more reports to file, she'd have to record it somewhere. But, there were ways for the chief engineer to log such incidents yet make them difficult for the command officers to spot.

As planned, Tom had made sure he got his off duty time to coincide with her own. So, a little later in the day than expected, B'Elanna found herself outside holodeck two, intrigued but apprehensive about what she was going to find in there. Tom had engaged the privacy function to stop any curious passers-by from wandering in, but her own authorisation codes unlocked the door.

Her first thought was that if he were expecting to re-enact a scene from _Women Warriors at the River of Blood_ – or any of its spin-offs - he was going to be disappointed.

Just because she'd allowed herself to be manoeuvred into spending time with him, alone, in a locked holodeck, in the confines of a cave lit only with 'mood lighting', that was not going to happen. They weren't on a date. It would just sure as hell look like it to a casual observer - at least a casual observer familiar with the literary works of LurSa, daughter of Ja'roD.

Tom could flirt until all the stars went out - and he'd been in good form on that front lately – but, did he seriously think a smoky cave was going to make her 'heart quicken'? It just so happened she was getting tachycardia, but more from annoyance than excitement.

Surely this wasn't the environment he had planned for the Day of Honour program? Was it?

At least beyond the entrance the roof of the chamber was high, perhaps a concession to Tom's reputed dislike of enclosed spaces. The cave walls disappeared into darkness five or six metres up; the warm light given off by burning torches that jutted out of the rock failed to penetrate any higher. Her footsteps echoed disconcertingly as she crossed the floor and the sound seemed unnatural given the physical properties of the environment.

Caves. Her first misadventure in a cave had been in the Maquis, when after mistaking mineral deposits for Cardassian weapons signatures, she and her team had been trapped underground for three days by a rock fall. Then, there was the cave system outside the Vidiian base where she and Tom had been held captive. No happy memories there. Poor Hogan had been eaten by a troglodytic serpent on Hanon IV, and, last but certainly not least, was the cave system on the Sakari planet where she, Tom and Neelix had gone searching for gallicite. And chaos had ensued. Caves were not high on her list of geological features to spend time in. Craters, crevices, fine. But, caves...

Tom stood waiting for her, rosy-cheeked, a PADD in one hand and his sweater slung over the other shoulder. B'Elanna was, on the contrary, more than comfortable to keep all her clothes on, even if she had dressed for standard shipboard conditions.

Once polite greetings were over, she kept her voice level and enquired, "Why a cave?"

"Some of the most sacred places in the Klingon Empire are caves," he explained excitedly. " _No'Mat_ , _vaHbo'Dis_ on Boreth, _Hurgh'och_. I thought it would be fitting. I was going to use the actual dimensions of one of the caverns at _No'Mat_ , but I wasn't sure if that would be in some way disrespectful. So, I took a generic cave template and went from there."

Unable to find fault with his reasoning, B'Elanna moved to explore the rest of the cavern. And found her nose overpowered by an acrid, eye-watering odour as she reached the furthest recesses. "What the hell is that smell?" she demanded. Torches were replaced by candles back here, the light even dimmer than in the main chamber.

Tom caught up to her. "Incense," he said from the shadows. As if it should be obvious.

B'Elanna shook her head. "No. I mean, yes, there's the incense," though the source of that she had yet to find, "but there's something else." She sniffed the air a couple more times. "It smells like … burnt targ."

"Oh. The candles," he said proudly. "They still make them on Qo'noS by rendering targ fat into tallow, so I chose that rather than paraffin- or beeswax-based versions."

"Lovely," was B'Elanna's sarcastic response. Then she realised: the smell wouldn't be so offensive to his less sensitive, fully human olfactory sense. Lucky him.

"I can always swap out some of the candles for coal burners, but what do you think on the whole? Do you like it?" Tom asked, oozing an enthusiasm that B'Elanna was trying gamely to match.

"I like the temperature, but could we reduce the artificial echo effect?" she said diplomatically, edging past him back to where the walls were wider apart. "It's a little hard on the ears."

"Computer, decrease echo effect by 50%." He turned to B'Elanna. "Better?" The reverberation of sound was noticeably diminished.

She nodded. "Much." The smoke effect got the same treatment. Tom fussed over the placement of the burning torches and fine-tuned their luminosity. B'Elanna asked the computer to moderate the level of aromatic compounds in the now much clearer air.

Tom was as much at home here tinkering with the holoprogram as he was at _Voyager_ 's helm. She watched him fixate on the specs on his PADD for a long moment, until he noticed her out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and flashed her a quizzical smile.

"What about the Klingon holograms?" she asked quickly, gesturing to the scenery currently devoid of any holodeck characters.

"Well, I programmed one to guide you through the rituals - a master of ceremonies, if you like." He scrolled through some files on his PADD. "He's not perfected yet, but I think I can load him into the matrix, and … there."

A surly Klingon male materialised to B'Elanna's immediate left. She sidestepped hastily. The armour-clad hologram stood motionless barring a faint rise and fall of his chest in simulated breathing.

"Computer load personality subroutines Paris one three seven," Tom called.

The hologram remained stationary, its gaze still blank. Tom frowned and tapped at the PADD again. "There must be a glitch somewhere."

"Did you remember to load the motor function operations?" B'Elanna asked, moving to his side and peering at the device in his hand. "Here," she said, indicating a discrepancy with a pointed finger. "The environmental awareness algorithm doesn't link up with the character's primary matrix. And this file is corrupted. Look."

Tom cursed quietly. "Sorry. I'll have to go into the core settings and reconfigure the coding sequence to fix it. I'll do it now. It should only take me ten minutes."

"It's fine," she reassured him, gesturing to the immobile hologram. "He's a standard, stereotypical Klingon male, right?"

Tom nodded absently. "But, I wanted you to see the initial interactive experience." He wandered over to where a wide ledge jutted out from the wall at chest height. Setting down the PADD and his discarded sweater, he hauled himself up backwards to sit, careful to avoid placing himself directly under one of the flaming torches. His fingers began to work frantically on the PADD as he corrected his programming error.

B'Elanna was not particularly let down, though she did feel bad for Tom seeing the disappointment clear on his face. The sight of the holographic Klingon, still and functionless beside her, made the impending Day of Honour seem more real; no longer was it just a date on the calendar, far in the future. She'd gone and roped Tom into the crazy scheme and he'd run with it. It was getting too involved now to easily back out of.

Despite the smouldering heat of the cave, she shivered. It was absurd. She enjoyed reading about fictional Klingons well enough. But, the thought of interacting with one was not a prospect she relished, even though it made sense to have someone – something – to guide her through the Day of Honour ceremony. And with no other Klingons in the Quadrant (well, excepting those former Borg drones in the Nekrit Expanse) a hologram was the only logical option.

If she really was to go through with it.

Subconsciously, she ran a hand across her forehead, stopping abruptly as soon as she grew aware of the gesture. The pattern of cranial ridges her fingers traced was unchanged, except in scale, from her earliest weeks of pre-natal development. Those few days she'd had a smooth forehead – it was over two years ago, now - had been a strange, but insightful experience, least of all because of her appearance. Without her Klingon DNA and resultant physiology she'd felt peaceful, even if incomplete. As the Doctor had gradually reintegrated the Klingon genes into her cellular structure, she'd felt stronger, more alert. And back to being constantly conflicted over something or other.

Tom was clearing his throat. Deliberately. Loudly. Whatever he'd been saying, she'd not heard it in her introspective daze.

"What's on your mind?" he asked, dropping the PADD into his lap for the moment.

Her brain kicked into gear. Fumbling for an answer that didn't entail sharing some of her innermost insecurities, she resorted to a vague, "I was just thinking about something." Which only led to a more quizzical glance from Tom.

B'Elanna wandered over to the ledge. Tom's long legs dangled over the side, not meeting the floor. She tried to pull herself up to sit beside him and failed clumsily on the first attempt; the rock was slippery, her feet could get no purchase, and, for an engineer, she really wasn't tackling the problem scientifically. Before she could try again, Tom jumped down beside her.

"Here, I'll lift you up," he offered, with his hands heading purposefully for her shoulders.

She jolted away from him, a surge of wounded pride mixed with something less immediately discernable coursing through her. "I can manage," she said stubbornly. Futilely. Resorting quickly to, "Computer, lower the height of this ledge by thirty centimetres."

In a shimmer of photons and force fields (and thanks to a surprising amount of intuition from the often obtuse ship's computer) the rock deformed and reshaped. B'Elanna put on a triumphant smile and hauled herself up. Tom rolled his eyes and did likewise, maintaining an exaggerated distance. When B'Elanna failed to expand on her earlier answer, he resumed his work in silence.

She pondered her attitude. She wouldn't have been so quick to refuse hands on help from most others – from Chakotay, or Harry, for example. Her height wasn't a sensitive issue; most people were short in comparison to Tom, so it wasn't that. But, when he'd moved to touch her … her unease, she concluded, wasn't from anticipating that she wouldn't like the sensation, but from envisaging that she would.

Who was she trying to kid? – knowing from experience that she would.

Though, how did she know that her attraction to Tom Paris was genuine and not a residual effect of the neurochemical imbalance brought on by Vorik? If the feelings she was trying to suppress were artificial, then it was right to ignore them and hope they'd eventually go away. But, that was another self-deception. Although more powerful since the blood fever, the attraction had definitely been there before. Since the Sakari planet, the consequences of the bite on the face - autonomic responses, pheromonal or otherwise – could have been at play, amplifying her feelings. But, more significantly, the incident had shown her a side of Tom she hadn't previously considered: that he could be depended upon not to take advantage when she was at her most vulnerable. Reliability wasn't the most exciting prospect in a potential mate, but for any long-term relationship it was essential.

How the hell had she let her thoughts wander to this topic with him sitting right there beside her? With her mind occupied with tangible, practical problems for much of the past month, a backlog of unprocessed thoughts had accumulated, and they were now vying for her attention.

Now she allowed herself to think on the issue, her feelings towards Tom Paris were not like those she had experienced towards other men. Not Max Burke, with whom she'd had the longest romantic relationship; she'd never bitten him on the face. Not Chakotay, on whom she'd undoubtedly had a crush at first. When he'd recruited her into the Maquis, saving her from who knew what at the hands of marauding Cardassians, she'd been star struck. Gratitude and admiration combined, it turned out, were a powerful aphrodisiac. But, those feelings had resolved into more of a fraternal bond. The thought of Chakotay as anything more than that now, just felt plain weird.

Tom had changed so much from the obnoxious, narcissistic pig he'd been when they'd first met (and still appeared to be at the start of _Voyager_ 's journey). In hindsight, his arrogance had been a front: a defence mechanism. Her feelings for him now leaned more towards the powerful emotion she'd experienced in the Enaran memories: emotion that hadn't been her own, but that, in her dreams, she had still felt the full force of. With that epiphany, her legs, thankfully which she was not presently relying on to carry her, suddenly felt like they were made of Neelix's fruit cocktail Jell-O. Oh hell …

It had been some minutes now since either she or Tom had spoken. His body language screamed 'exasperated', and as much to divert her thoughts as to appease him, she felt compelled to offer something. Anything.

"I appreciate the research you've done," she said sincerely.

"You're welcome," he answered, cordially, but without looking up.

Now what? She scratched her head. "My grandmother went to _No'Mat_ once. I remember her telling me about it." At that Tom did look up, his eyes wide with curiosity, which dampened when she added a necessary addendum, "But I didn't pay much attention. I used to switch off when she started on one of her tales." B'Elanna shrugged. "Bad of me, I guess. Especially given that I only saw her a dozen times before she died."

Tom took the self-criticism to warrant a response. "It just sounds like you were a typical kid. I once fell asleep on the table during a family wedding. I got stuck with my grandfather's one hundred year old uncle. Literally bored me to sleep."

His anecdote was well meaning, but irked her. "It's not the same. Klingon children are supposed to be enthralled by old people spinning stories. My cousins all loved it. Half of what she said was exaggerated. From listening to her, you'd have thought she was a _Dahar_ Master."

Tom had that same aura her young cousins had displayed back then, right now. "She was a warrior?"

B'Elanna snorted. "Not exactly. She was on the maintenance crew of a troop transport. Saw just enough action to fuel her imagination."

"Oh."

It might be wise to get back to talking about technical details on the program.

"Did your mother never take you to _No'Mat_?" Tom pressed, before B'Elanna could change the subject. "When you were on Qo'noS?"

"No. We spent most of the time visiting relatives." And B'Elanna had been treated as a curiosity in every household, on every visit: the fragile 'half-breed', slow and stunted when compared with her similarly-aged Klingon cousins. It had made her exceedingly grateful that her mother had taught her the Klingon language. Better to know what was being said about you in that situation than, in ignorance, conjure up worse. In fairness, the innumerable uncles, aunts, and cousins hadn't been directly unkind. Not by Klingon standards of insensitivity. Not cruel as many humans in her experience, the kids in school whose 'teasing' had at times made her wish she could take an industrial sander and plane the ridges right off her face. Even later at the Academy, she'd toyed with the idea of cosmetic surgery. Removing her cranial ridges and adjusting her hairline would be a relatively simple medical procedure, though for ethical reasons most Federation doctors would be unlikely to agree to carry it out. More probably, they would instead refer her to psychiatric help.

The superficial alteration of her appearance without affecting the underlying genetics, the redundant organs, the hormones, and so on, only rarely crossed her mind now; the forehead did have its advantages. It served as a warning sign to those who might pick a fight. It was an excuse for her temper. Back in grammar school, and even in the first semester at the Academy, the obvious sign of her partial Klingon heritage had meant some people had made allowances, giving her leeway she wouldn't have had if perceived as fully human. Until they'd finally lost patience. And, excepting when she looked at her reflection or a holoimage, she didn't have to see the ridges herself.

She'd been a curiosity at the Academy, too. There'd been unsolicited attentions from a group of cadets hoping to put a tick next to 'Klingon' in their boorish freshman activity of getting lucky with a member of as many species as possible. That had been the provocation that led to her second disciplinary hearing: when she'd pushed one of those classmates into a fast-flowing river during subarctic survival training. She wondered if Tom would have been a member of that sort of crowd during his Academy days.

"B'Elanna?"

She started. "Sorry?"

"I said, did you decide yet what you want to include in the ceremony?"

"Right… yes," she stuttered, adding with conviction, "The rituals my mother taught me – the eating of heart of a sanctified targ and drinking _mot'loch_ \- they're essential. They should form the basis." They were far from the nicest of foodstuffs, but her previous hatred for the tradition had waned.

"That should be simple enough," Tom said, "though the targ heart will be replicated so –"

"Unsanctified," B'Elanna finished. "It will do."

"And after that? To … test your honour?"

That wasn't so easy. She crossed her arms, hands clenching around her biceps. "I haven't decided yet."

"OK …" Tom drawled, "but, until you decide ..."

"We still have another month."

"You know how hard it is to get together." He chewed his lip thoughtfully, eyes fixed on her face. "Do you want to spend another couple of hours in the hololab like we did before?"

She shook her head, matching his gaze defiantly. "I'll get around to it."

Tom looked sceptical, giving a slight shake of his own head. Then he picked up the PADD again and continued fixing the hologram.

B'Elanna fidgeted, knowing she should be making more effort. If roles were reversed, and she were in Tom's place, she would have quit helping long before now. He really must have a deep fascination with all things Klingon to tolerate her attitude – not to mention the temperature in the holodeck, which he had to be finding oppressive. Tipping her head back to rest against the hard stone she shut her eyes, trying to summon calm. The heat was wonderful, warmer than the Finnish sauna program in the ship's database. Maybe she should just decide on the hot springs of Ketha Province and go with that. Though there was bound to be something unpleasant hidden in the fine print of the ritual. The water probably stunk of hydrogen sulphide. Even though the holodeck safeties would keep the concentration of the noxious gas below the safety limit, it could still be nauseatingly pungent. And whilst altering the environment to make it less realistic would solve that little issue, where would the honour be in that? No, a Klingon ritual couldn't possibly be enjoyable.

Opening her eyes she turned to Tom, who looked like he was starting to melt. Intending to inform him of her decision, she instead found herself asking, "Have you always been interested in Klingons?" His mouth twitched as he snapped his gaze from the PADD to her face. She amended her question quickly. "In Klingon culture, I mean."

He nodded once, slowly. "A long time. Since I was a kid."

Long before meeting her, then. She didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

"Why exactly?" she asked. "Why Klingons, not … Vulcans, for example?"

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow at that in a fair imitation of Tuvok, and she rolled her eyes. "OK," she said, "Andorians, then? Or Betazoids?"

He smirked. "Well, Betazoids are interesting, too. They have a certain … reputation. But Klingons …" His brow creased and he set down the PADD, turning to face her squarely. "I think it started with my interest in the Vikings. They were a great seafaring people, and I always loved reading about old sailing ships and exploration. I see a lot of similarities between the Vikings and the Klingons - battle tactics, for example. And the honour concept."

Whilst Earth history had never been her best subject, B'Elanna did recall learning something about the ancient Norsemen and the first European exploration of North America.

Tom continued, appearing to choose his words carefully. "But, on Earth, perceptions of Klingons are a little coloured by stereotypes."

Didn't she know it. She nodded. "Most humans have never met a Klingon face to face, and can only go by what they see in the media."

"Exactly. There's nothing better than personal experience when it comes to forming an opinion on people - or a group of people."

"How many Klingons have you actually met?" she asked, not recalling him ever mentioning a personal encounter.

"Only a handful," he admitted.

"After you left Starfleet? Or before?"

Tom seemed unfazed by her direct line of questioning. "We picked up a couple of Klingon diplomats once when I was on the _Exeter_. Then, before Chakotay signed me up, I ran into a few traders and freelance … security guards along the DMZ. But none of them made an impression on me like you have."

B'Elanna quirked an eyebrow. He'd better not be referring to the bite on his face. But, he'd sounded sincere, not just flirtatious. And his expression was … solemn, now, actually. And a little disconcerting. She turned away from him to stare purposefully at her hands twitching in her lap.

"So, living and working with a half-Klingon has been educational for you then?" she baited before glancing back up.

Tom's eyes narrowed.

"Given how much you like learning about Klingons," she explained.

"Well …" he faltered, seemingly perplexed. "I've discovered a few things I might not have if you weren't on board. I don't know if I'd have thought to try the Klingon martial arts program. Or read so much Klingon literature. Tried so much Klingon food."

She raised an eyebrow, amused. " _Women Warriors_ and Neelix's Klingon breakfast buffet?"

"I just re-read G'trok's _The Fall of Kang_ ," he countered. "It was required reading at the Academy, but I hadn't read it since. I enjoyed it even more this time, knowing that I wasn't going to be examined on it."

"Good for you," she grumbled. "I dropped out before getting to that class."

"The book's in the database if you want to read it. Both the standard translation and the original Klingon text."

"I'll pass, thanks."

Tom frowned and mopped his brow with the back of his hand, clearly uncomfortable yet uncomplaining. "I'm not doing all this purely to feed some obsession with Klingons, you know," he said, waving the PADD at her. "I'm showing an interest in the Klingon stuff because of you."

Spontaneously, she batted away the compliment. "You said you've always been interested in Klingons."

"Yes, to an extent, but … my interest has been rekindled. I've got added incentive, now."

Straight out of a trashy romance novel it might be, but there was an unmistakeable heat in his eyes. And it was making her pulse race.

"Janeway to all senior officers. Please report to the briefing room."

Both jumped at the sound of the Captain's voice over the comm channel, Tom uttering an expletive, which B'Elanna echoed less forcefully.

Maybe this program just wasn't meant to be. "I wonder what that's about," B'Elanna pondered aloud, gathering her thoughts.

"I assume Chakotay's finally back from his survey mission," Tom said, saving the updates they'd made to the program and grabbing his sweater and PADD.

"Or he's still not back and the Captain wants to start a search for him," B'Elanna said, with a sense of foreboding.

They exited the holodeck, heading for the turbolift at a brisk pace. "Why think the worst?" Tom said brightly.

"I'm allowed to be concerned, aren't I? You know Chakotay's track record with shuttles."

Tom nodded, his sunny demeanour darkening. "True. Maybe I should have gone with him, but he did insist he wanted to get some hours in at the helm. And if I had gone, I wouldn't have got to spend this time with you."

Striding into the awaiting turbolift, B'Elanna ordered, "Deck One," in lieu of responding to Tom's comment. He stepped in beside her as the doors began to close, seriously in need of a shower and a change of clothes, both of which would have to wait.

"I have a bad feeling about this," she muttered, poised to leap out of the lift as soon as it reached its destination.

"Chakotay can take care of himself," Tom asserted, lounging against the wall. "Don't worry about him."

B'Elanna peered up at him and unthinkingly uttered, "Why? Are you jealous?"

Tom grinned. "No. Do you want me to be?"

"That's your choice," she snapped, adding, "but Chakotay and I have never been anything more than friends, and we never will be."

"Good to know," Tom said, still smiling. "Not that I thought differently."

B'Elanna made a mental note to check the turbolift maintenance reports. Either some temporal anomaly was blighting the ship's internal transport system, or the damn things were getting slower.

They joined the rest of the senior staff in the briefing room, Janeway began to speak, and all B'Elanna's worries about the impending Day of Honour, and her emotional state with regard to Tom Paris were soon overtaken by more urgent concerns.


	4. March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Although "Nemesis" aired after "Day of Honour", production number and stardates imply it must have been set before "Day of Honour" and I have assumed thus in this story.

4\. March

Two shuttles lost in a four week period. January had been a bad month even by _Voyager_ 's standards. B'Elanna didn't want to see specs or unassembled parts for the class-9's again for a very long time. At least building this second replacement had been a smoother process than the last, what with the engineering teams having had such recent practise. And, there was the benefit that Vorik had been out of main engineering for another few weeks. B'Elanna had got quite used to not seeing his smug little face every day. It was going to be quite a chore to suffer through his incessant suggestions again. Maybe the Captain would approve his permanent reallocation to head up a shuttle production line …

Chakotay had been a mess after his experiences with the Kradin and the Vori. He'd done his best to carry on as normal, but he hadn't been at all himself for his first couple of weeks back. B'Elanna had declined two invitations to the holodeck (and one to Neelix's Valentine's Day themed potluck) from Tom with the excuse that she had plans to play hoverball with the first officer. Chakotay needed some moral support and who else was he going to get it from? Janeway seemed more interested in housetraining her rescued Borg. Ayala was busy deputising for Tuvok. Neelix was still mourning the loss of Kes. It just couldn't be helped that work on the Day of Honour program had stalled. Not that it was on complete hiatus; Tom had continued to add to it, though to what degree B'Elanna didn't exactly know.

But, she was about to find out. As Tom had dutifully reminded her yesterday morning, the holy month of _nay'Poq_ was upon them. It was a not so subtle hint, though delivered without pressure, that, with two days to go until the Day of Honour, the program was unfinished. She owed it to herself – to Tom, at least – to get a grip and at least ensure that undertaking the ceremony would be an option if she so wished it on the day. Still, that was easier to think than do.

When her shift had ended - or, more precisely, an hour later, when she'd finished briefing Carey on the preparations for the fuel cell overhaul - the first thing she'd done was check the holodeck schedule. The second was to contact Yosa and trade some replicator rations in exchange for him ending his weekly swimming session early. That was the easy part; now came the real challenge.

Six times she moved her hand to her comm badge. Four times she changed her mind, her fingers not even making contact with the badge. On the fifth attempt, she pressed it and opened a channel. Before closing it again without speaking. Only on the sixth attempt did she overcome her cowardice and direct the comm. "Torres to Paris."

"Go ahead," came his near instantaneous reply, the clatter of utensils and background chatter accompanying his voice.

She hesitated, and even then would have offered a lame, contrived reason for the comm, if she could have thought of something.

"B'Elanna?" 

She couldn't think of an excuse. There was only the truth. "Do you have a minute?"

"Sure." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "For the program?"

"Could you meet me in holodeck two? Right away?"

"I'll be there shortly."

They only had fifteen minutes. Tuvok had both holodecks booked for the rest of the night and into the early hours for a new training exercise – _Assimilation Alpha: Upgraded Countermeasures Against Borg Assault_. And there'd be no trading rations with him.

B'Elanna waited for Tom before loading the program. He strode in not a minute later, a half-eaten Cornish pasty in one hand.

"I'm sorry," she stuttered. "I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner. Only …"

"Holodeck time's at a premium," he finished for her. "Luckily, Neelix does take out." His easy smile remained as he said, "I was beginning to think we'd run out of time."

B'Elanna shrugged her shoulders. "We still might have. But … I thought we could see where we're at."

Tom nodded, took a bite of food, and gave muffled directions to the computer to load the finished version of the program's "welcome" level. It was even more polished than the last version he'd shown her, several weeks ago now. Not necessarily any more 'welcoming', but, it definitely felt real. The cave was more refined. Shallow basins filled with burning coals sat atop metal stands, replacing the flaming torches. The metalwork was decidedly Klingon in style. The malodorous tallow was still in attendance, but the stench much attenuated.

"The holograms are fully integrated now," Tom said. "It's just … we still haven't scripted the ceremony so the program doesn't have any files linked to load in. We could run a virtual simulation from a terminal in engineering, but the actual hologrid will be tied up overnight with the security drill and I'm back on duty at 0600."

Sighing, B'Elanna ran a hand over the rock of the cave wall, a phaneritic igneous variety at this location, grains clearly visible. Granite? It looked pretty, but, "We should have spent more time on the important details, instead of fussing over the décor."

"You said you wanted it to be atmospheric," Tom countered.

B'Elanna whirled to face him, hand snapping to her hip. "I said no such thing!"

Tom dusted the crumbs from his hands and crossed his arms. "You said I did a great job with Sandrine's because it was so atmospheric. I remember clearly."

"I'm only going to run this program on one day. It doesn't need to be holonovel quality," she said, starting to pace.

"What about next year? The next sixty years? I designed it to last. And, correct me if I'm wrong," he challenged, "but the décor was my responsibility, decisions about the important details as you call them, were yours."

Tom was right. It wasn't his fault at all that the program wasn't ready. If she hadn't spent so much time evading the important decisions it could have been fully ready, despite all the obstacles Voyager's recent adventures had put in the way. Her input on what she did and didn't want to include was essential to the completion of the project.

"It's not going to work," she declared, standing still.

"It can work. Look, we'll just have to rely on the computer to interpolate some of the specifics from all the variations in the database. Making some of the details a surprise could be a good thing. It would be boring if you knew exactly what to expect."

B'Elanna raised her eyebrows sharply. "That's pretty much the definition of a ritual," she contended. "It's a series of actions carried out in a prescribed order!" Neat and tidy like an engineering protocol, not haphazard and unpredictable like one of Neelix's 'recipes'.

"OK," Tom conceded, "but we know from the research we did that where this ceremony is concerned, there's a lot of leeway."

"So … what? The targ heart and _mot'loch_ and then whatever the program throws at me?"

Tom nodded. "But we already eliminated the unpleasant subjects like cold endurance. So, how bad could it be?"

Bad. But, he made a fair suggestion.

"And if the challenge part of the program requires a setting outside of the cave? How do we factor that in?"

"The computer will use information in the geographical files to approximate the scenery. It won't be as realistic as what I designed myself, but it'll function."

She paced again. Not agreeing to anything, but not ruling it out.

"Here, let me show you the holograms, and maybe when you see –"

"No," she interjected. "That's OK. Let's leave that as a surprise." A growling, posturing Klingon hologram might be all it took for her to write off the idea completely.

Tom let the silence hang for a long moment, the look in his eyes suggesting he wanted to raise something, but was unsure how best to proceed. That look set her further on edge.

"So, tomorrow," he said casually. "I was wondering –"

"I'll decide in the morning, Tom." In his defence, he hadn't pressured her about the program at all, only encouraged over the three months it had been in the offing. So, her response was a little abrupt.

"Actually, I was going to ask if you were free for dinner."

And, apparently, a misjudgement. Again. "Oh. Right." Dinner.

"So, how about it? My quarters, 1930 tomorrow."

"If I decide to go through with the ceremony during the day, I won't be in the mood for more Klingon food in the evening," she warned him, stalling for time.

"No gagh, I promise. Just regular, replicated Alpha Quadrant fare. Whatever you want. On my rations."

A free replicated meal was a hard thing to refuse. And after running a fuel cell overhaul and going through the Day of Honour ceremony – if she went through with it - she'd deserve a reward. Tomorrow could be a very long day. But, dinner? Not a shared meal whilst planning a holoprogram, or lunch in the mess hall with company. Dinner. In Tom Paris' quarters. An offer she'd previously declined on several occasions. This time, however, she found she really didn't want to turn him down, regardless of whose rations were involved.

"Anything I want?" she asked, not wanting to appear overtly eager.

"Sure," he said, embellishing his offer with a mischievous wink. "I could even provide entertainment."

She could keep deflecting, secretly enjoying the chase, without committing to any risky emotional investment. But, surely he'd give up, eventually. Sixty years was a long time to be alone. And, there was no shortage of single women on _Voyager_ who wouldn't mind being pursued by Tom Paris. In some cases, he probably wouldn't have to 'pursue' for very long. Even with tacky pick-up lines like that. Perhaps because of those. So, she rolled her eyes at him. "As long as you're not going to play me Klingon opera, dinner sounds nice. Thanks."

And he responded with a slightly disbelieving, but highly satisfied smile.

With their remaining few minutes they implemented Tom's suggestion, giving the computer far more control than B'Elanna would have envisaged when they'd first talked about the program three months ago. Tuvok arrived with half a dozen security officers in tow just as the cave setting had dematerialised and B'Elanna had opened the holodeck doors.

"What are you doing now?" Tom asked B'Elanna, as the two of them headed for the turbolift. "Harry's thinking of hosting a poker tournament in his quarters later if he can round up enough competent players."

She shook her head, too beat to consider it. "I'm planning an early night."

Tom smirked. "Curling up with a good book?"

Was he ever going to let that drop? She chose to play along. "I've decided to trade _Women Warriors_ for something a little more believable," she said, deadpan. "I don't think I'm going to find romance quite that … adventurous here on _Voyager_. Reading those novels might give me unrealistic expectations."

"I'm always ready to challenge those expectations," Tom replied, not missing a beat.

The turbolift was on her side today, doors hissing open with excellent timing. "Then I'll see you tomorrow," she quipped, resorting to, "and don't forget to bring me that helm control evaluation," to end the conversation on a more sober footing.

"I wouldn't dare."

She exited the lift there at deck four, leaving him continue back up to the mess hall alone.

Back in her quarters, her tired mind temporarily re-energized by a rush of adrenaline, she replicated a light snack and changed out of her uniform. Reading a few pages of _Women Warriors_ before bed did cross her mind, but she decided something more soporific would be wise and gave _The Fall of Kang_ a glance. She soon concluded that the epic poem might actually put her in a coma, and tossed it aside, wondering what had compelled her to download it at all. Being part-Klingon had lost her a father and a mother in the end. Neither parent had been able to cope with the alien part of her - her father with the Klingon moods and her mother with the human 'weakness'. B'Elanna would forever be stuck between two worlds, never fully belonging to either. Another perspective was that her Klingon side was no more to blame than her human side for her failure to fit in. Her Klingon genes were not the root cause of all the bad things that had ever happened to her. But, acknowledging that would require far more time and consideration than she was willing to give the issue right now; consideration that could stir up a whole host of undesirable emotions and memories, just as the imminent Day of Honour might, also.

Damn it. She'd make her final decision on the ceremony in the morning. Right now she needed sleep. Lots of it. She recycled her dinner plate and utensils, paid a visit to the bathroom, and, back in the main living area of her quarters, pulled back the covers on the bed. The degree of comfort provided by the Starfleet-issue sheets was directly proportional to the level of fatigue currently besetting the occupant of the bed. Tonight, the scratchy xenylon would feel like authentic Tholian silk.

"Computer, set alarm for –"

"Carey to Torres."

For crying out loud. She slapped her comm badge. "What is it, Lieutenant?"

Carey launched into a list of questions about procedural irregularities and deviations on the FCO prep schedule. B'Elanna let him ramble for a while, tuning out all the irrelevancies before cutting him off with the reassurance he needed to leave her in peace. Taking off her comm badge, she climbed into bed.

"Computer, lights out."

What was that saying her mother had often quoted? Something about everything being impossible to those who were overly cautious? Attributed to Kahless himself, if memory served: an instruction to be brave. Carey could do with taking that under advisement. It was all very well not wanting to take risks in principle, but, in real life, it just wasn't practical. The greatest achievements came from calculated gambles. Not from reckless, ill-considered, consequences-be-damned ventures, maybe. But from taking chances where the potential payoff far outweighed any possible pitfalls.

Maybe Carey wasn't the only one who needed to learn that lesson.

Maybe.

Tomorrow might be a good day to try.


End file.
